


FFXIV - Figments of the Realm

by rprambles



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gen, Prompt Fill, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, one WoL and a bunch of side characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rprambles/pseuds/rprambles
Summary: A collection of drabbles for prompts in FFXIV Write 2020. Various characters, not in chronological order.
Relationships: Hien Rijin/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 2





	1. #1 - Crux

_n; a vital or decisive point_

When the storm finally clears, The Discourteous Siren sits in the sea like the debris strewn about her in the water. Listless, little more than something for the wayward souls aboard to cling to with the last of their hope. She walks around the deck with care, stepping over broken wood and bodies that were not swept away by the gale. The sails hang in tatters, great holes burned into them. She wonders if the captain looks like that now, floating in the sea with a rough circle charred through his chest.

She shakes the thought from her head and looks skyward. Without the angry glare of Dalamud the stars shine clearly through the breaking clouds. She holds up a hand to guide herself as she connects the distant flickering lights into constellations.

Her ears twitch toward the footsteps coming up behind her. “Know where we are, lass?”

She turns her gaze down to him; he’s has certainly looked better. “Far off course. But I think I can direct us back to civilization.”

He shakes his head. “Gotta be more confident than that if you’re to lead.”

“…that blow to your head is worse than it looks. You’re the first mate, Gomani.”

“Aye, I am. And you’re the one that stepped up when it counted.”

She hadn’t thought about it at the time. Half the crew had seen the comet strike the captain mid-sentence. She’d just been the one to pull her wits together first, to yell louder than the chaos and get everyone moving. But yelling doesn’t make a leader. “Why would the crew follow me?”

“They already did.”

He’s not wrong. When she’d yelled for them to abandon the sails and get below, the crew had rushed under the deck. When more comets came and water leaked, the crew had snapped to her orders. She hadn’t thought about any of it. She’d just wanted to survive the storm.

From behind his back Gomani holds a simple tri-corn hat. Lifts it up to her in offering. She can feel people watching, members of the crew cautiously peering above deck now that the ship has settled.

Putting it on feels like the most natural thing in the world.


	2. #2 - Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stormblood spoilers

_n. rule; dominion_

“On your guard udgan. The wind warns of men in iron.”

She can smell them too. The cloying odors of oil and metal that had filled the castrums. Marching feet and a clanking that sends soft vibrations through the earth. The claws of her gauntlets dig into her palms. How dare they. How dare they set foot in her home, bringing their machines and reeking of death. So eager to sully what is not theirs to claim.

She turns slowly as they draw near. The Roe in front laughs and speaks as if they are familiar, as if she should care who he is. She does not, for he is nothing. She is _khagan_. The Steppe is hers and he is not welcome in it.

She will make that clear before he dies.


	3. #3 - Muster

_v; to gather_

She winces at the snap of wood as she wrests a branch free. Taking a step back, she looks it over with a critical eye. “What do you think, Matthias?” The chocobo croons and gives a shake of his head. “You’re right. Too crooked.” She tries to snap it over her knee, but just gives herself a bruise. So she takes the little hatchet and cuts it down to size. The pieces go into the sack hanging from the bird’s saddle. “We’ll find one that works. And in the meantime, plenty of kindling.”

She doubts he actually understands her, but it feels nice to talk to someone. Like having a friend. Not a lot of those around for a deserter’s child. But she’ll change that. One day Sharp will be a respected name again. Not even the rough dismissal from the army registrar could stop her. It’s easy enough to watch the knights go through their drills, to mark down the steps and motions. She’d pushed through the weeks of aching muscles worsened by the cold; now she could do it all with her eyes closed.

But a lance. That is something she can’t get just by watching. She’s saving up what little gil she can earn, but there’s always the risk of it being stolen or needed for an emergency. And her recent purchase of a nice shelf hadn’t helped, but her father had smiled so brightly it had been worth the setback.

Until she can purchase a proper steel lance, however, she needs a suitable practice arm. She pulls her threadbare coat a little tighter and keeps walking. There’s a promising one - no, there’s a crack down the middle, that won’t do at all. The next is as crooked as the first. One actually does crack over her knee and she lets out a surprised giggle; Matthias squawks, grey feathers fluttering. “It’s alright! It’s just wood.” She tucks the pieces into the sack. “At least we’ll have plenty of kindling.”

Her nose has gone cold before she finds an ash sapling, not much taller than she is. A quick cut from the hatchet frees it from the frozen earth and she strips off the twigs, ignoring how they catch on her gloves. It feels solid in her hands; she’s sure there’s more to it, balance and weight, important considerations when hunting dragons. But for a start...

She practices a little, a swing and thrust into a snow drift. It feels good. Edelin giggles again and reaches up to scratch Matthias under the chin. “I knew we’d find a good one.” The bird chirrups, ducking down a little so she can climb astride him. With reins in one hand and lance in the other, she can’t stop grinning. “Onward to home, boy.”


	4. #4 - Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavensward spoilers

_v; to hold fast_

Appearances do matter. People shop with their eyes, and if a sellsword doesn’t look like they have what it takes, they don’t get hired. People hunt with their eyes, and if a sellsword looks weak, bandits see an opportunity.

And when a sellsword walks into a trial room in full armor, helm under one arm and axe on her shoulder, well. It makes a statement.

She stops beside Tataru and turns her sternest gaze to the adjudicator. “I am Eloise Sharp, and I stand for this woman.” She can feel the knights eyes on her and pointedly refuses to look at them. Arrogant pricks hate to be ignored, and the angrier they are the more likely they’ll make a mistake.

She puts on her helm when they open the gate and heads down into the arena. “How shall we handle this?” Alphinaud asks in a quiet voice.

“Just keep me standing.” She drops the visor of her helm and finally faces her opponents. While the adjudicator calls out a prayer, she gives her own; O Halone, take pity on these fools in my way.

She lets them attack first, parrying and deflecting what she can. The attacks that connect hurt, even through the armor, even with Alphinaud’s magicks sweeping over her. She doesn’t complain. She knows how much she can withstand; how much can the knights dish out before they start to wear?

When they start panting, she goes on the offensive. Patch gets the blunt side of her axe in his side, sending him stumbling off. Grumpy puts another dent in her armor and she gives him one in kind. Purple magick bursts around him and he growls in pain. Good work, kid, that gives her a second to double-down on Patch. He dodges her first swing but the next hits him hard in the shoulder.

“Enough of your tricks!”

Her head snaps round. Grumpy’s thrown a chain tight around the kid - the hells was he keeping that? She kicks Patch almost absently before heading back to her charge. She grabs hold of the chain before Grumpy can pull it taut, looping it around her arm. Digging her heels in, she yanks. Grumpy stumbles forward right into her fist.

Pain spikes through her shoulder. Patch recovered faster than she thought. She twists away, ignoring the burning and blood as she brings her axe’s pommel into his jaw. That should keep him busy for a minute. She holds her wounded arm tight against her chest - even with Alphinaud’s magicks already working, that’s an injury that could put her out of work if she’s not careful.

And Grumpy’s getting back up. She settles back into the defensive, knocking aside his swings until she sees an opening. Her axe hooks around the shaft of his and she pulls it from his grasp. She swings low, knocking him flat on his back, and then swings down, stopping just a hair away from splitting his skull.

When the adjudicator calls the trial to an end, she lifts the axe and steps back, biting back a wince as both armor and body protest. The kid appears at her side, gingerly holding a hand out to support her as they head back to Tataru. Back up the stairs to Lord Harchefaunt and the Fortemps estate, where Eloise plans to take a well-earned nap.


	5. #5 - Matter of Fact

_n; a statement or allegation to be judged on the basis of the evidence_

“Hello, Jacke.”

He stops in the doorway, staring at the pirate perusing the map on the far wall. “Cap’n Molrocca. I knew ye were in port, but Lonwoerd didn’t mention ye’d come by.”

She doesn’t turn around but he can hear the smile in her voice. “One man at the door ain’t exactly a challenge, is it?”

“Y’know he’ll just let ye in.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” She pulls a poster from the map and finally turns, walking over to him. “Took care of this for you.”

He takes it from her, glancing over the name on the bounty. “Aye? Quite the claim.”

“You don’t trust me?” She looks hurt for only a second, a wicked smile following. “I knew I liked you. The flag’s in the Siren’s hold, ready for perusal at your leisure.”

“Ye didn’t bring it wit ye?”

“It’s entertaining to see you on a ship every now and then.” Her fangs catch the lamplight as she laughs. “And I may have a few other goods, ones our friendly Jackets wouldn’t take such a liking to.”

Jacke raises a brow. “And ye came by them innocently, did ye?”

“Far as you know.” She winks and heads for the door. “Don’t forget to bring your coinpurse, Jacke.”


	6. #6 - Click (Free-Write)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadowbringers spoilers

_v; to emit or make a slight, sharp sound, or series of such sounds_

“What about you? You must have a friend like Seto. Chocobo, perhaps? C’mon, you tell me something for a change.”

He’s deflecting a little. More that a little. But he is actually curious; a strange feeling after so long adrift. The little au ra doesn’t call him on it, fingers moving and twisting. He’s seen her do this before, back in the Source, but it had just seemed odd handwaving at the time. Now he understands it, though he couldn’t even guess at how.

“Not a chocobo, a yol. They are grand creatures with grey and purple and white plumage. They are fierce, preying on weak hunters, and only allowing those who have proved themselves upon their backs. My friend is called Bayar. I sent them back to the Steppe before I came here.”

She’s still wearing her gauntlets, every gesture accompanied with a metallic clicking. He wonders at the practice it took to sign while wearing them. “The Steppe? That’s your home, then?”

She nods and he almost regrets asking, the look on her face is so sad. “It is the only place where I wholly belong. The Scions are good friends, and the Fortemps are kind. Even in Doma, I do not feel fully…” She pauses, taps her chin with one sharp claw as she frowns at the floor. After a moment she meets his gaze again, fingers clicking away. “When you came to the Source, what did it feel like? Not the journey, but to stand and exist in a place that was not yours?”

Ardbert tilts his head. “Like… everything was off. The air didn’t feel right.”

“Yes. Only home feels as it should. Only the Steppe. I have managed to make friends in many places somehow, but they are not my home.”

“Somehow?” He raises a brow, almost smiling. “You don’t know how you made friends?”

Muunokhoi laughs, a rough warm sound. “No! I am grumpy and I punch people when they make me angry. Would you want to be friends? And yet I have the Scions, and the Fortemps, and Hien.”

“Hien? Who’sat then?”

“The lord of Doma. He is strong and brave, too brave sometimes. He has a good heart.” She hesitates, as if… shy? “He is important to me.”

“Important as in… you fancy him?” He can’t help the surprise in his voice - and no doubt all over his face.

She smirks. “Which is so odd, that I like someone, or that I like Hien?”

“I just wasn’t expecting the Warrior of Light to admit she’s sweet on someone.”

“Warrior of Darkness,” she corrects, gestures almost smug.

“Oh of course.” He gives her a mock bow and she laughs again. “You’ve really taken to that title, haven’t you?”

She shrugs. “It suits me better. Azim has never shone on me.”

“Who’s Azim?”

“The Dawn Father, one of our gods. The other is Nhaama, the Dusk Mother, and She has always welcomed me in the night.” Her fingers move faster, metallic scrapes and tings accompanying the stories of the Steppe. She tells him how Nhaama scattered dust through the night sky and made the stars, how She made the Xaela and Azim made the Raen to fight but the two people found their way to peace instead and were given the world. And other more mundane tales - how she had originally gone to Eorzea to bring her cousin home, and how she’d climbed the Ceol Aen to listen to the wind sing.

It’s little wonder they lose track of time. He doesn’t realize how much until she yawns and he notices the sandwiches are all gone. Before he leaves, she surprises him again; “We should talk again soon. You are good company.”

“That’s better than when we first met and you tried to kick me in the head.” He grins at her laugh. “We’ll see.”


	7. #8 - Clamor

_n; a loud uproar_

The noise outside pulls her from her book. Jeering taunts, and underneath a soft whimpering. She jumps up quickly, pulling on her coat and grabbing her practice spear. She’d been planning to finish her book before going out to train, but the bullies in the street sound insistent, and Edelin Sharp never disappoints.

They look the same as any other, decently dressed. Though not in proper finery, true noble children would never set foot in the Brume. Would certainly not chase a poor wastrel into a corner and laugh as they cower; their gaze simply slides off as if the Brume is beneath their attention.

She taps the butt of her spear against the stones and speaks clearly, “Leave them alone.”

The jeering peters out as the bullies realize someone else is there. One steps forward, likely the ringleader. “Why? You gonna do somethin’ about it?”

“If you force my hand.” She holds herself straight and tall. Like a knight.

He laughs and steps closer. She doesn’t move, watching. Waiting. He acts just as she expects, a wide obvious punch. She dodges to the side and drives the butt of her spear into his gut, pushing him back to fall on the stones. The others quickly run to his defense. It’s rough, and she doesn’t come out of it without her own share of bruises, but she is standing when a guard notices the ruckus and comes running and shouting. The bullies scatter, half of them limping. She wipes blood off her lip and watches until they’re out of sight. For a few moments she feels like the knight she wants to be.


	8. #10 - Avail

_v; to be of use, profit_

She could’ve gone anywhere, really. The benefit of having no ties, or memory of them at least. A little bit terrifying, if she was honest. The entire world ahead, all she had to do was pick a direction. And she could’ve taken the obvious one, followed the rosary to Coerthas and the Church of Halone. But it didn’t really interest her - and she’d heard the weather there had taken a turn for the frigid and honestly, fuck that shite.

If she was honest, she didn’t really choose. She just drifted. Took odd jobs helping the Companies, from moving rubble to digging graves. She didn’t fuss over the past or the future. The now had plenty to keep her occupied. She ended up traveling a lot, escorting people across a land that the Calamity had shifted and reshaped. Not that she noticed the difference.

Gridania was pretty, in a reserved kind of way. It felt too… proper. Like it was holding itself to some invisible standard. Eloise couldn’t shake the feeling that she stuck out like a sore thumb. The deep red of her second-hand armor probably didn’t help, but she liked the color.

Limsa Lominsa was nice, bright and lively. A bit humid for her liking, but the people were honest. But most of the work was sea-faring, and Eloise didn’t know much, but she knew she preferred dirt underfoot.

Ul’Dah was… good. Full of money-hungry merchants and fancy folk, but also honest sorts just trying to get by. The Sultana seemed to have a good heart at least. And she liked the heat and feel of the desert. It was a rough place, but genuine about its roughness. She could belong here.


	9. #11 - Ultracrepidarian

_n; a person who criticizes, judges, or gives advice outside the area of his or her expertise_

Sive fully believes it would be best for Garlemald to stay within it’s own borders for a change, rather than pitching tantrums about how the Eorzeans won’t just roll over and die. But one good thing about the renewed conflict - plenty of Garlean tech left strewn around the battlefields.

“Honestly, it’s like they’re daring us.” She pulls a part free from the chassis, turning it over in her hands before setting it down beside the others.

“Why would they worry?” Cible leans against the gunship’s frame, arms folded. “It’s not like the savages are going to take it apart and figure out how it works. We’re still banging rocks together and hunting with sticks.”

She snorts. “You remember that last ship we took down? Such a shame it sunk so quickly, but the look on the commander’s face.”

The elezen looks mock-aghast. “Impossible! How could you do this?”

“It’s called an anchor and darksteel harpoons, ye bastard.” She puts a bit more drawl into her voice, just as she had when standing over the waterlogged Garleans tied up on the Siren’s deck.

“That couldn’t possibly pierce Garlean technology!” Cible fights back a smile as he puffs his chest.

“Then explain t’ me why your ship’s sinkin’ int’ the brink, mate!” She breaks into a peal of laughter, work briefly forgotten.

“I almost wanted to toss him in the stew instead of a longboat, he looked just like a fish.” Cible snickers. “Oh, but when he realized he’d have to row himself home.”

Sive leans against the chassis as she giggles hysterically. She didn’t regret for a moment having to replace the longboat, watching that sorry lot try to figure out how to get themselves moving without cerulean engines or consoles. They’d sorted it out eventually, aided (or perhaps hindered) by the crew shouting suggestions down at them.

“We’re going straight to the bottom of the hells, Captain,” Cible says once he’s caught his breath.

“Aye.” She wipes a tear away and grins. “And without a single regret.”


	10. #12 - Tooth and Nail

Muunokhoi _itches_.

Her scales are molting. Not surprising really, after changing climates and multiple injuries, but still. Irritating. Her clothes chafe against her hips and the breeze against her face and horns is almost painful. When the group finally stops for camp, she drops her kit and promptly strips out of her clothes. She ignores Lyse’s shocked yelp, grabbing a rag and a bottle of oil before heading to the nearby stream.

The scales on her front and limbs come away easily enough; thankfully the molt hasn’t damaged her tattoo. She puts the intact ones aside in a neat pile, letting the stream carry the rest away. She winces and bites her lip as she carefully works on her horns. They’re hypersensitive now, and the sensation mixed with the sound is almost painful. When the last bit of molt comes free she sighs in relief.

“Muunokhoi?”

She looks over her shoulder to see Hien standing a little ways away. “Dinner is ready.” She mimes a ponytail and his brow furrows for a second, then he smiles. “No, Gotsetsu made it.”

Good. Gotsetsu knows good food. She taps her scales; she’ll be there when she’s done.

“Would you like some help?”

She tilts her head. Nudity clearly doesn’t bother him, and living with the Mol he’d know what a molt is. With a smile, she beckons him closer.

He sits behind her, mindful of her tail, and starts rubbing gentle circles across her shoulders. He sets the whole scales in the pile she’s made and gives her the rest to scatter in the water while he works slowly down her back.

“May I?” She glances back at his question. He holds his hand a respectful distance from her tail. At her nod he picks it up with care and gently works the loose scales free. She turns back to the river, dipping her toes into the water and enjoying the quiet.

Hien must have done this before; when all the old scales are gone, he picks up the cloth and oil without a word. With the same gentle touch he rubs oil into the new scales, from the tip of her tail to the nape of her neck. She could take the cloth from him then, finish cleaning by herself, but… it’s nice. So she doesn’t. She lets him lift her arms as he needs, turns so he can get to the scales on her legs and hips, closes her eyes while he tends to her face and horns.

He sits back when he’s finished, smiling. “I imagine that feels much better.”

She nods and returns the smile as she signs, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He wraps the saved scales in the cloth and hands the bundle to her before standing up. “Now, with any luck Lyse was too scandalized to eat all the food before our return.”

She giggles. “Eorzeans are so weird.”


	11. #15 - Ache

_v; yearn_

“We make for the Azim Steppe.”

The simple words send a jolt through her. The words she’s wanted since the Scions decided to head east, since she set foot on a boat headed for Eorzea. She almost doesn’t believe she heard them, even as they start down the road. But they’re leaving Doma, following the coast… this is happening. She can only follow their pace for so long, eager frustration getting the better of her; she darts between Lyse and Yugiri and into the wild ahead.

“Muunokhoi! Wait up!”

“Let her be, Lyse.” Gotsetsu’s voice carries an understanding. “She is returning to her home.”

Their voices fade as she gains distance. Not that she cares what they say. Not when she’s finally here, finally coming back. The woods start to thin, mountains turning to rolling grassy plains. She can’t hold the tears back as she feels the wind change. By then she’s been running for so long her legs finally give out, momentum sending her rolling down the gentle slope. She comes to a stop on her back, staring up at a clear blue sky that goes on for miles. Bugs chirp and sing in the grass around her. The breeze carries the scent of flatweed and distant smoke.

She can’t stop crying, the awful weight of wrong finally gone from her chest. Home. She’s finally home. Finally back where she belongs. She sucks in a lungful of crisp, clean air, and laughs.

She’s still lying there when they’ve caught up, tears dried away by the sun. Gotsetsu steps into her vision and smiles kindly down at her. She grins back.


	12. #16 - Lucubration

_n; laborious study_

At first the little apartment was nothing more than a collecting place for mail. Easier to find a street address than a ship out at sea. But from time to time she’s needed somewhere on solid ground to meet, or Raenwyda has insisted she spend time ashore. Gradually the bare space became furnished, then livable, then comfortable. It’s a nice little hole in the wall now. Casks lined up in a row, ready to tap. A place to weigh spoils and debate their worth. Maps and fresh information pinned up in clear view. A proper rogue’s hall.

Behind the wall of casks, however, is her space. Barely enough room for a cot and armchair, and whatever room leftover is taken up by books. Stacks upon stacks of them, in what Gomani declares a reprehensible mess. But she knows what’s where, and that’s what matters. After a long sojourn at sea, she can sweep past the chatter of crew and contacts, pick up whatever new packages have arrived, and tuck into them in the comfort of an overstuffed chair. Its easy to lose track of time back there, where the world focuses down into the space between pages. More than once she’s fallen asleep with a book open in her lap and a half-finished tankard in hand.

Her workshop ever remains at sea, but her library that wouldn’t survive the sea spray is safe in its corner.


	13. #17 - Fade

_v; to disappear_

It’s impossible to keep track of everything happening on the battlefield. She focuses on cutting down the foe in front of her, then the next, and the next. Her shield is already dented from gunfire, but it still holds and she still stands.

And then the world ends.

She’s heard mutterings about the moon, seen it coming closer and brighter in the sky, but to see it explode in the sky - the light is blinding. Everyone has scattered and there’s a roar in the air she hasn’t heard since she left home. A dragon, here?!

No. Something worse.

She catches a glimpse of it between the glare of aether and her mind reels. Gods, how can anyone stand against that. When a blast knocks her off her feet, the dark that follows is almost welcome. The sounds of battle, of calamity, deafen and fade, the pain dulls. She weakly grasps for the rosary around her neck.

_O Halone, give unto me thine judgement. And unto my family thy mercy._

-

-

\- 

She wakes slowly, blinking up at a canvas ceiling. Everything feels a little sore and stiff; when she starts to sit up a jolt of pain runs up her side. Ah. That’s why the bandages.

“Oh! Easy, don’t move too quickly.”

A hand gently pushes her back against the cot and she meets the woman’s gaze. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe. You’re in an Alliance field clinic, at the edge of the flats. The battle is over.”

“Battle?” She doesn’t remember a battle. Actually, now that she thinks about it… what does she remember?

“Yes, you were wounded and brought here. How are you feeling?”

She lifts her hands; one of them is bandaged and she turns it carefully. “I got a lot of questions.”

The woman smiles kindly. “I’m not surprised, everyone seems to. I’ll answer what I can.”

“Who are you?”

“Renne, I am one of the healers here.”

She meets her gaze again. “You ready for the big one - who am I?”

Renne blinks. Then stares. “I beg your pardon?”

Yeah, probably not something a healer wants to hear. She shrugs and winces. Ow. Don’t shrug. “I don’t know, so I thought I’d ask.”

“You… don’t know who you are?”

She shakes her head. “Take it that’s not a common thing.”

“No, it certainly isn’t!”

“You seem very concerned.”

“Yes! Are you not?”

She shrugs again - ow, no. Stop that. “Not really?” Mostly she feels confused. She doesn’t know what she’s lost to be concerned about, after all. 

Renne opens a box beside the bed, taking out some tattered clothes. “Maybe there’s something among your possessions. Your armor couldn’t be saved, unfortunately.”

The string of beads catches her eye and she takes it while Renne searches the clothes. She turns over the pendant - three little spears in a row. She’s not sure how she knows they’re spears. “What’s this?”

“Hm? Oh, it looks like a rosary. That’s the symbol of Halone.” Renne holds out part of the shirt, fingers framing a neat stitch on the inside of the collar. “Look at this. Is this familiar to you?”

She tilts her head. Its pretty enough, thread making clear shapes against the fabric, but damn if she understands it. “That another symbol of Halone?”

“No, it’s a name. I would assume it’s your name, you were wearing this when you came in.”

“Makes sense. What’s it say?”

“Eloise Sharp.”

The healer watches her expectantly, and she herself half-expects something to happen at those words. But there’s nothing. It’s as meaningless to her as anything else. She tries the name out herself; “Eloise Sharp.” No, still nothing. “Well, I hope whoever that is doesn’t mind me using it for now.”

Renne frowns and tucks the clothes away. “Perhaps it will come back with time.”

Eloise shrugs - damn she has to stop doing that. “Doesn’t make much difference to me if it doesn’t.”


	14. #18 - Panglossian

_adj; given to extreme optimism_

Haurchefant hums as he lays out a few coats on the bed. “I fear we don’t have anything your size, my friend. But you’ll not lack for warmth.”

Muunokhoi runs her hand along the clothes. Digs her fingers into the fur of one before she takes it up, pulling it tight around her shoulders. Her petite frame almost disappears in it, sleeves dangling around her knees. She tucks her face down into the neck of it.

“Better?” He smiles when she nods. “Once we’re in Ishgard proper, we can find you something tailored. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks.”

A hand comes out of the folds of the coat and makes a sign. It’s the same she’s made since she arrived, that Tataru translated as ‘thank you’.

“Of course. I’d be a poor host if I let you catch cold.” He puts the rest of the coats away before turning back to her; she’s frowning at the floor. “What’s the matter?”

She meets his gaze and lays a finger on one of her horns, then makes a ‘chatter’ motion before pointing at his chest. He wishes he were further along in learning her language, but she’s patient as he tries to puzzle it out. “You- no, your horns? Talk, who’s talking?” She makes a sweeping gesture toward the door. “People in general talking, about me. You’re worried about how people will talk about your looks and me?”

She nods and taps the pommel of his sword, then points at her horns again. Ah. There had been some talk when she’d first arrived in Coerthas, but most everyone in Dragonhead had grown used to her presence and her help. But he remembers the bits of gossip before he’d called an end to it, the foolish assumption that au ra are descended from dragons. An unfortunate side-effect of the war.

He puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles gently. “Thank you for your concern, my friend, but your well-being is far more important to me than what anyone else thinks. You’re right, people will talk, as they always do. Pray pay them no mind and know that you always have my support.”

He doesn’t expect the tight hug she gives him, but it’s more than welcome.


	15. #20 - Fleeting (Free-Write)

_adj; passing swiftly_

“Could you look more like a bunch of sorry sops?” She makes no effort to lower her voice as she strolls up. “Off drinking in a corner, fretting about what could happen and what has been.”

The shinobi frowns at her. “We could die tomorrow.”

“Aye, but we’re doing this anyway. So why fret and fuss over what could be and waste a perfectly good evening?” Sive pours a healthy measure of sake into a cup.

The Warrior of Light doesn’t speak, pale grey eyes watching her movements. Gosetsu rubs his chin. “Do you never feel compelled to reflect on your past, Captain?”

“Not while I’m drinking. Nobody wants to listen to a pirate cry into their cups when there’s a good shanty to be sung.”

Yugiri tilts her head. “I’m reminded of an Eorzean phrase. ‘Eat drink and make merry’?”

“For tomorrow we die.” Sive raises her cup in salute and empties it in one go.

Lord Hien sits back, an amused smile on his face. “You have my interest, Captain. How do you prepare your crew for a battle that could change everything?”

“Same way we prepare for everything, m’lord. With salt in our lungs and song in our hearts.” She refills her cup as she sings in a clear voice, “ _Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme. Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine. Come lift up your voices, all grief to refrain, for we may or might never all meet here again._ ”

Hien nods in approval. The Warrior of Light sways to the meter, a soft smile on her face. Sive holds her cup high. “ _So here’s a health to the company and one to my lass. Let’s drink and be merry all out of one glass. Let’s drink and be merry, all grief to refrain. For we may or might never all meet here again._ ”

All four of them raise their glasses in toast and she grins. Aye, that’s the spirit.


	16. #21 - Foibles

Anyone who travels with the Warrior of Light long enough learns that the petite auri woman has a fierce temper. More than once Alphinaud has had to talk her down from punching someone and starting an incident.

But he’s not there when Gosetsu thoughtlessly insults the Dotharl. The only thing louder than the silent glares of the tribe around them is the crack of Muunokhoi’s fist against the back of Gosetsu’s head. Her hands cut through the air as she signs, “You do not have to share our beliefs to respect them, you horse’s ass!”

She doesn’t wait to see if he understood her, storming off to find something to hit that she isn’t friends with.


	17. #28 - Irenic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stormblood spoilers

Muunokhoi lags behind the group. Fortunately no one seems to notice, too caught up in the joy and relief of victory. And she feels it too, but it battles with fatigue from fighting that creature - Zenos or the primal, it doesn’t matter now. Both are dead. Later she’ll feel cheated by the prince’s last act, but for now she’s just… tired. She’s stopped walking entirely, staring at the beds of flowers. They look soft and inviting as any mattress, and she’s slept in worse places. But someone would come along eventually, and if they found her passed out on the ground they’d panic.

She can’t help a bit of dread at the sound of footsteps. Someone coming back to check on the Warrior of Light; likely Lyse or one of the twins. She straightens up so they don’t fuss and give her a headache on top of all her other aches. But when she looks, it’s only Hien, and the tension leaves her as quickly as it came. A quick glance over shows no injuries on the Doman, and that is no small relief. In the back of her mind, between everything else, she’d worried.

He smiles as he steps closer, until there’s only a few ilms between them. “I’m glad to see you are alright.”

She feels the same, and she’d tell him so and more, but just the thought of signing is exhausting. Instead she drops her head against his chest. He jumps a little in surprise, and then his arms wrap around her, warm and strong. She sighs and leans into him. There’s singing in the distance, voices overlapping, turning the words into noise. She doesn’t need words with Hien. He picks her up, holding her close against him as he walks. She nuzzles into his shoulder, already half-asleep by his fifth step.


End file.
